


Titanic

by clarkedarling



Series: film aus [3]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Titanic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkedarling/pseuds/clarkedarling
Summary: In 1912, the Titanic, the world's most luxurious passenger ship, set out across the Atlantic for New York City. It would never see it's destination. To Anne, a homeless and penniless dancer, winning two tickets on the luxery liner was the best thing that ever happened to her. Her life, as well as everyone else on the ship, would be changed forever. Even before she discovered the fate of the Titanic did she know what his destiny was; he met Phillip.Phillip was a troubled young man living in a rich society, engaged to a millionaire that his mother had sought out. He was living in a fantasy, a fantasy that he didn't want, and he was looking for a way out. Anne was his way out. Anne heroically saved his life and was immediately thrust into his world, though no one knew she fit in. She was the only one that could see the anguish that Phillip was in . . . She was the only one who could get him out of it.





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing the Moulin Rouge one so much that I thought I'd write this too! I hope you enjoy it!

**North Atlantic Ocean.**

**April 14th, 1996**

P. T. Barnum was an optimist. He wanted to believe that the phone call he had received less than ten minutes ago hadn’t been a complete waste of time. He wanted to believe the old lady’s claims. However, he had been on the research vessel _Akademik Mstislav Keldysh_ for months, and they hadn’t found any sign of the rare diamond the Heart of the Ocean. Their only clue had been a drawing of a young woman wearing only the necklace dated April 14, 1912, the day the ship struck the iceberg, in a safe they had recovered. An elderly woman from New Orleans had contacted the ship after the discovery had been broadcast on the news. According to her, she recognised the necklace and had information that they would perhaps be interested in.

Was she being honest, or just looking for fame? The more compassionate side of Barnum told him that she had no reason to lie, and that he had to trust what she was saying. After quiet deliberation with himself, he rang back immediately and told the woman that he’d like to invite her aboard the vessel, all the way in the North Atlantic Ocean. She had sounded delighted and assured him that she would be there within the week.

After the call he had informed one of his colleagues, a rather grumpy Irishman named O’Malley who had become a treasure hunter for all the wrong reasons, about the woman intending to pay the ship a visit. He hadn’t taken all to well to the news, scrunching his nose up.

“The only Carlyle’s aboard the ship were wealthy socialites from New York,” he had grumbled, skeptic as always. “And besides, you say she’s African American? There were only three reported black passengers, a Joseph Laroche from Haiti, and his two biracial children, who were two and three."

Barnum, full of newfound hope that they’d finally learn what had happened to the diamond, brushed it off. “Who’s to say she isn’t one of his children? Haitian culture is rather widespread in New Orleans, isn’t it? Anyway, she could have married since."

“I still think she’s some nutcase looking for publicity,” O’Malley sighed. “Like that Russian girl, Anaesthesia.” Chuckling at the butchering of the name, Barnum tried not to allow O’Malley cast doubt over his silver lining.

Barnum had been in the laboratory, leaning over his wife’s shoulder as she examined the drawing, when they heard the helicopter arriving. Charity had slid off her gloves and glasses, and began to walk towards the door, whilst Barnum lingered. Placing her hands on her hips, she rolled her eyes, though a smile was tugging at her lips.

“Something caught your eye?” she asked, snapping him out of his stupor. He flushed a deep red, as he pretended that he hadn’t been staring at the sketching of naked woman on the parchment.

“I was looking at the necklace,” he muttered. “For research purposes."

Charity nodded, as she pinched his cheek lovingly. “ _'Research purposes'_ , eh?” she teased. “You know that poor girl is probably dead? Or really wrinkly and old now."

If it was possible, Barnum grew even redder, as they reached the top deck on the ship. Charity’s giggle was lost in the sound of the propellors, as the helicopter landed. A small ruckus was ensued, as it was revealed that the woman was in a wheelchair and needed assistance. Barnum of course bound forward to greet his guest, and was rather surprised at how elegant she was, for somebody aged one-hundred-and-four. Her hair was a magnificent shade of silver, and naturally curly, blowing in the wind. Her eyes were bright, and a deep chocolate brown. They had remained young, whilst the rest of her had aged gracefully. Wrapped in shawls, she was rushed inside immediately. When in, what the inhabitants aboard the _Akademik Mstislav Keldysh_ has dubbed the ‘lounge’, Barnum was allowed a proper look at her.

Anne Carlyle, undoubtedly, had been very beautiful in her youth. There were laughter lines adorning her well-kept skin, and she had even made the effort to apply a little make-up. Her lips were a soft nude, and curved into a wide smile. Behind her stood the girl who had accompanied her on the journey, who she had introduced as her granddaughter, fifteen year old Iris. As Barnum offered them a cup of tea or coffee, he couldn’t help but remark on how familiar the granddaughter looked.

“Now, Mrs Carlyle, I believe you have some information for us regarding the diamond?” he began, politely. Everyone was gathering around now, and he prayed that this woman wasn’t spinning them all a web of deception. Anne’s attention seemed to be halfhearted, as she glanced around the room, eyebrows furrowed. “Are you looking for something?"

She nodded. “Yes, my picture,” she replied. Her accent was thick, a honey-dipped Louisiana drawl. With a mischievous grin, she pointed a finger at Barnum, the way a grandmother scolds those younger. “I don’t remember giving you permission to plaster it all over national news, but I’ll forgive you. I must admit it is a rather flattering angle."

“Your picture?” Charity asked, her mouth agape. “You mean . . . you’re the woman in the drawing?"

Anne smiled, and immediately Barnum realised why the Carlyle women had seemed so familiar. “I’d pretend to be insulted that you don’t recognise me, but it was eighty-four years ago,” she joked, and he laughed. She was witty, and he liked that about her. Charity was laughing too, as was everyone else. She glanced at Barnum, and narrowed her eyes. “You’re wondering if it’s all true, ain’t you?"

Feeling a little guilty, he nodded. “You have understand, there’s no record of you on the boat. The only Carlyle’s were - "

“Phillip and Mathilda?” she answered, matter-of-factly. “Oh, I am well aware. My mother-in-law never liked me much."

Shocked, Charity gasped a little. “Mother-in-law?"

“Phillip was my husband, you see,” she told them. “We were married onboard because we were afraid that the law would prevent us to be wed once we reached American soil. I can still picture Mathilda’s face when she saw the ring on my finger. I don’t know what she was most horrified about; the fact I was a circus performer, or that I was black!” Anne seemed to be more comfortable now, as she leaned back in her wheelchair. “Now, what else do you wanna know?"

“Everything,” Barnum answered, honestly.

“Alright, but I’ll warn you; it’s a long story."

-

**Southampton, England**

**April 10th, 1912**

The day the _Titanic_ set sail from Southampton, Anne was sat in a bar by the docks with her older brother of five years, W. D., playing a couple of Swedish men at cards. Initially, they had scoffed at the proposition of a game from two coloured circus performers, especially one being a woman, but the siblings had charmed them over. Now on the betting table sat £46 in coins, two $10 notes, a couple of gilded buttons, a pair of golden boots, a fine tooth comb, a pair of pearl earrings and two tickets for the _RMS Titanic_. Anne’s contribution had been the boots, the earrings and a couple of coins, and though the shoes and jewellery were treasured possessions, she was more attracted to winning the tickets. W. D. on the other hand had all the money he had in his wallet - which meant all the money _they had_.

Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t thought about her home country. Seven years she had been away from America, travelling the world with circus after circus. First a boat trip to the Bahamas and a smattering of other Caribbean islands, then to Venezuela, then Brazil, then South Africa and a whole host of African nations before boarding another boat from Morocco to Spain and then to Italy, then a whistle stop tour of other European countries before getting a direct train from Moscow to Paris, and then to the UK where they now waited to find transport back to America, ideally New York.

Anne was wearing her brother’s heavy tartan coat; they only had the one coat between them, and he insisted she have it. She’d caught a particularly nasty cold when she was little and nearly lost her life because of it. W. D. did not want a repeat of that incident. She had his coat and his thermal socks. She was wearing a pair of his corduroy trousers too, a sand colour, but only because he had grown too big for them. Anne was tall for a girl, but W. D. was taller, so she’d gotten his hand-me-downs. She didn’t mind so much as she never really cared for skirts and dresses. Braces were holding her trousers up as while lengthwise they fitted great, where width was concerned she needed support to stop them from slipping down. A white cotton shirt hugged her slender frame, and a dark brown button up was layered over the top. Her unruly curls were tucked under a brown cap, though a few could not be contained and spilled out down the nape of her neck and in front of her eyes.

Glancing between her cards and the blonde-haired fisherman across from her, she tried to suppress the grin forming. It was a good hand. A _really good hand_. W. D. was doing that thing where he would chew on his lip when he was nervous, which meant he didn’t have a good hand. The bearded Swedish man appeared equally apprehensive, fiddling with the corner of his card, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.

Her brother leaned close to her as he was forced to retract from the game, his cards insufficient, tapping his foot erratically. “We’ve bet everything we have,” he muttered, his tone sharp.

“So little faith in me brother,” she sighed as she laid her set of cards down after the bearded man had folded too. A winning hand! The blonde one cried out, as W. D. jumped out of his seat and threw his arms around Anne. “We’re going home!"

Elated, the pair of them were too wrapped up in their excitement that they nearly didn’t hear the foghorn call out in the distance. They were barely able to scoop all their winnings into their sacks before rushing out the door and towards the harbour. Fortunately, all their years excreting and training for the circus came into good use, as they made it aboard the steps just in time to stun the man closing the door to the ship.

“Wait, wait!” they had both called out, to the horror of the man. Clearly, he wants nothing more than to slam the door in their faces and leave them outside, but was prevented by the sight of two tickets.

He sighed, and snatched the tickets from their hands. “How do I know these are real?"

Anne had been so caught up in winning the tickets that she hadn’t considered the difficulty of two black people getting onboard. “Well, just look at them,” she replied, trying to keep her frustration out of her tone.

The man narrowed his eyes at her, scrutinising her every detail. “Have you been through the inspection queue?"

“Of course!” she nodded, this time lying though her teeth. They hadn’t got lice or diseases anyway - the queue would be a waste of time.

Unable to deny the fact that they did have legitimate tickets, the man ushered them onboard, though didn’t look too happy about it. “Just know I’m watching the pair of you,” he hissed.

Anne couldn’t resist the urge to flash the employee a mischievous wink over her shoulder. His jaw dropped and he flushed a deep scarlet red. A laugh escaped her lips as W. D. tugged on her sleeve, pulling her down the corridor before they could be dragged off the ship.

-

Phillip could have sworn that he heard the most enticing laugh echo from behind him, but when he turned around he saw only a rather disgruntled looking employee, his face a beetroot red. His brow creasing with bewilderment, he swivelled back around and shook his head. Maybe he had imagined it. He was surviving on less than three hours sleep. All night he had been tossing and turning, dreading the moment he stepped foot on the _RMS Titanic_.

His mother, Mathilda Carlyle, was storming ahead of him. She was eager to see if their cabins were good enough for her. Phillip was the first to admit that his mother was uptight ant pretentious, and he loathed the way she was swanning about the boat as if she owned it. She was a woman of her late fifties, though was trying hard to hide that fact. Dressed in a brand new dress - all her clothes she had packed were bought a week ago specifically for the voyage - with her hair pinned up in the latest fashion, she openly turned her nose up at the other guests that hadn’t _‘made as much of an effort’_.

Her arm was linked with Elizabeth Lovejoy’s, who was equally as snobbish as her soon-to-be mother-in-law. The sight of the two women, whispering and gossiping together like thieves, made his skin crawl. They were the reason he couldn’t sleep. The pair of them were scheming, trying to entrap him in a life he didn’t want. While England wasn’t his home, he enjoyed his time in the country. Both his mother and Elizabeth had been too busy shopping and going to dress-fittings and attending dinner parties to give him much grief. He had been free to walk in the countryside, and write, and just be himself. Now he was being transported back to New York where he was to be shackled to Elizabeth for the rest of their lives, pretending to be something he wasn’t; happy.

“Philly dear, come on!” Elizabeth called out to him, her voice shrill and sugary.

Phillip couldn’t hate anyone, however there was something about Elizabeth that tugged on his last nerve. Lovejoy was rather an ironic surname, for she was anything but. She was snarky and judgemental, with permanent pursed lips that aged her at least ten years. With hair the colour of butter and skin the colour of milk, she was the epitome of what was considered beautiful. She was petite and always wore the most fashionable clothes. The pair had met at a dinner party a year ago, and while majority of the men couldn’t tear their eyes off of her, Phillip saw past the superficial and shallow facade. She had no substance; nothing about her that distinguished her from the other social climbers that New York was teeming with.

Yet, there were to be married with two months. Phillip hadn’t technically proposed himself - his parents had asked her parents for permission, and the next time he had seen Elizabeth she was wearing an engagement ring.

Sighing, he gave his fiancé a strained smile, and followed after them. He wondered how long he could continue being the dutiful son and fiancé.

Their first class parlour suites were beautiful, furnished with the finest of luxuries. Decorated in the period style of Louis XVI, they were equipped with all the amenities; telephones, heaters, specially designed gimbal lamps that wouldn’t tip over in the event of a choppy crossing, table fans, private baths and bells for summoning the stewards. They had been fortunate enough to get rooms with secluded promenades too.

“It’s incredible,” he muttered, as their servants piled in with all their luggage.

As usual, his mother was nitpicking. “Well, you’d expect a little more space for four thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars."

“Mother, we’re on a boat with two thousand, three hundred and eighty-nine cabins; this space is more than sufficient,” Phillip commented, with a huff. “I suspect third class passengers have to share a room this size with others."

“If it were up to me there would be no third class passengers,” Elizabeth commented, already lining up her silk pumps by the wardrobe. “All they do is spoil the place."

Phillip couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head and decided to go for a walk around the ship. If he passed a bar or lounge, then of course he’d pop in to explore their drinks menu.


	2. The Rescue Attempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip contemplates going overboard, until Anne intervenes.

Phillip sat at lunch with his mother and fiancé, the pair of them still wearing their brand new Merry Widow hats, bought especially for showing off on the boat. Personally, Phillip thought they were ugly and obtrusive. He didn’t understand why they would be in fashion when all they did was get in the way. Across the table sat Thomas Andrews, the ship’s modest builder, and J. Bruce Ismay, the not-so-modest managing director of the White Star Line. Of course his mother had befriended two of the most influential people on the ship. Shamelessly hunting for a new husband, he suspected.

Mathilda Carlyle was desperate to settle down again with a wealthy man; someone to appease her unquenchable shopping habits. His father had died some years earlier, leaving his wife in serious debt. This is why the engagement to Elizabeth was so important to her. She was convinced that his marriage would resolve their family’s financial problems and retain their high-class persona. Phillip, however, thought that the only way to solve their issues would be for his mother to sell her jewels and hats and her new dresses. He had already sold his 1910 Schacht Roadster, the cufflinks and pocket watch he had inherited from a distant grandfather, and the rights to his play, his life’s work, allowing some stranger to decide how it was to be produced on stage. Why couldn’t she make her sacrifices too?

Phillip was partly responsible for their lack of money, and he felt awful about it. In his early teenage years at boarding school he had gotten involved with a very wayward group of boys. They would spend their days getting into detentions and playing soccer, and their nights playing card games and showing each other dirty magazines. As they grew older they would start playing for prizes, such as money, cigarettes, and the occasional stolen bottle of brandy from Mr Pickering’s cupboard. By the time Phillip had left boarding school he had developed a serious addiction to not only drinking and smoking, but gambling too. This led to problems arising when he couldn’t afford what he owed to men after a night of poker. His mother, too ashamed of what people would think rather than wanting to look after her son, took loans out so he could pay the losing fees. This meant that he couldn’t say no when his mother had forced the engagement upon him, out of guilt more than anything.

Bored stiff, Phillip tried his hardest to appear interested in what his companions were talking about. It was something about the design of the boat, something that would perhaps have intrigued him if Elizabeth hadn’t been gossiping away to his mother. They were brutally discussing the lady sat at the end of their table, who they had decided was wearing a dress from two seasons ago. _“The shame”_ he heard Elizabeth mutter, shaking her head for dramatic effect.

The woman in question was a wonderfully candid, outspoken lady who had joined the voyage in Cherbourg. Her husband had struck oil ten years prior, thus making them instant millionaires over night. She was what his mother called ‘new money’, a term she did not use lightheartedly. Her name was Leticia ‘Lettie’ Lutz, and didn’t care in the slightest what others thought about her. Phillip thought of she was a welcome breath of fresh air, and enjoyed her company immensely. It was why he couldn’t stand the way his mother and Elizabeth were discussing her so nastily, and with her so close too.

Fuming, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, fully intending to dull his senses with a brief smoke. However, the second the unlit cigarette had touched his lips, he watched as Elizabeth reached out and pulled it from his lips, tossing it into his drink. “You know I don’t like that,” she hissed.

“I think he’s just doing it for attention,” his mother sighed. “Was always like that as a child. Crying and crying and _crying_ until somebody would look his way."

Before Phillip could interject, reminding her that he would only behave like that because he would go weeks before either of his parents showed him any sort of affection, a waiter peered over his shoulder to take his order. However, Elizabeth had decided to choose for the pair of them. “We’ll take the lamb - it must be pink - with very little mint sauce,” she instructed, no pleasantries to her voice whatsoever. She turned to Phillip, almost as an afterthought, and creased her brow. “You like lamb, don’t you Philly?"

Oh how he loathed that pet name she had adopted for him.

“Are you going to cut it up for him too?” Lettie teased, with a wink at Phillip.

-

To say that Anne and W. D.’s cabin was cramped would be complimentary. There were four beds, two of them atop of the other other two - bunk beds they were called. When they walked in, bags slung over their shoulders, they were greeted rather coldly by two Swedish gentleman. Anne, too excited about being onboard such a grand ship and sailing home, ignored their bewildered stares and shook their hands fervently. They muttered something to each other in their native tongue, most likely something unkind, but Anne didn’t mind. Instead she threw her bag onto the top bunk, smirking at W. D., who had had his eyes on that bed.

“We can swap throughout the journey,” she offered, though they both knew that once she had set her eyes on something she wanted, she wouldn’t let go.

After settling into their room, the pair decided to go exploring. Third class was clearly designed for necessity, not for grandeur like the other two floors were. The walls were plain and stained already, seemingly made out of whatever leftover materials they had lying around. People were spilling out of every room, as it appeared that the RMS Titanic had accepted one too many passengers. Children were playing in the corridors, burning off their excess energy by seeing who could sprint from one side to the other fastest.

All the different accents delighted Anne. They were English passengers, a few Americans such as themselves, Canadians, a couple of Levantine passengers, some Hungarians, a handful of French, passengers from Nordic countries like their bunkmates, and plenty of Irish.

They ascended the stairs to the top deck, where they were stunned at just how fast they were going. Running to the railings, Anne leaned over to marvel at the water, when W. D. called after her. “Be careful!” he exclaimed, concern evident in his tone. Anne merely grinned at him as she pretended to slip over. Immediately he began bounding forward until he realised it was a cruel joke, his face a picture of horror. “You have no sense of danger do you?"

Anne shrugged. “I just don’t see how people can truly think they’re living if they’re always so afraid of doing things."

“You can live just fine without sticking half your body over the side of the boat,” her brother muttered, his complexion paling as he eyed his sister cautiously. “Please, just stand still. You’ll give me a heart attack."

Giggling, Anne did as she was told. ‘You’ll give me a heart attack' was something he used to say all the time when they were going up in the circus. She’d be keen to show him a new trick which involved spinning down a rope handsfree, or leaping midair to catch the hoop waiting, and he’d be adamant that they wouldn’t be performing it right up until opening night when it would go down a storm.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a cloud of smoke accumulating on the first class top deck. When the cloud cleared, she was stunned to see a rather handsome looking man looking down at her. His hair was so dark it was almost black, and combed neatly into a fashionable style. He was wearing a navy jacket and tie, both rather expensive looking. Despite his well-kept and proper appearance, Anne got the impression he was trying his hardest to be anything but proper. He had one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a cigarette.

When they met each other’s gaze, Anne felt her stomach swarm with butterflies. Her lips parted ever so slightly, as she forgot how to breathe. She was vaguely aware of W. D. saying her name, but she wasn’t paying him much attention. The man wasn’t looking away, and she felt as though he were drinking her in, like a thirsty man savouring a glass of water. She watched as a woman approached him, a woman who was dainty and angelic, the sunlight radiating off her blonde locks. She tried to link her arm through his, but he shrugged her off, saying something that wasn’t audible to Anne. Whatever he had said seemed to infuriate her, as she slapped him hard across the face. Anne gasped and waited to see what he would do next. He surprised her by chuckling bitterly, shaking his head and walking off.

“He looked like bad news,” she heard W. D. say when her stupor had dissipated. “Did you see how he upset that poor woman?"

Anne shot her head round to look at her brother. “How do we know it was he who did something? Maybe it was her."

“Don’t tell me you have care for that man? You don’t even know him!"

Feeling her cheeks burn, she shook her head. “Of course I don’t,” she replied, though as she said it she knew that she wasn’t telling the truth. The butterflies proved otherwise. "I’m merely saying you shouldn’t judge other people from a split second of seeing them."

W. D. knew exactly what his sister was saying. She thought that could hide how she felt and what she was thinking from him, but he knew her better than anybody. Her eyes, the same as their mother’s, gave her away. Warily, he watched as she changed the topic hastily to the weather.

-

If it was even possible, dinner was far worse than lunch had been. They had been seated with a woman who had been at the same debutante’s ball as Elizabeth called Cornelia, and her new husband, Gregory Thompson. There was nothing about this couple that Phillip found interesting in the slightest. The Thompson’s were dull and shallow, with nothing to talk about but other people. Those were the worst conversationalists.

Whilst the others ate and drank and chatted merrily, Phillip could feel himself drifting away from the table. He had the horrible sensation that he was watching his life play out in front of him, as though he had already lived it. An endless parade of mindless talk at dinner parties he couldn't care less for, cotillions for people he didn’t know or necessarily like, and sports matches he didn’t want to watch. The same narrow-minded, superficial and vain people, the same idle gossip. It exhausted him to think about getting through the night, let alone the rest of his life.

Not only did it exhaust him, but it terrified him. He was terrified that his ability to choose just how he was going to live his life was going to be stripped from him the second he tied the knot with Elizabeth. Glancing at her across the table, he felt no love for her. How dreadful, to be trapped in a loveless marriage? Yet, he hadn’t the courage to stand up for himself. Not when he knew his mother would only guilt trip him into staying with Elizabeth, reminding him of what he owed her for the chaos his gambling addiction caused.

No, he could only see one way out the mess he had gotten himself tangled up in.

The second he could he excused himself from the table under the pretence that he was going for a smoke. Instead he ran all the way to the back of the ship, bumping shoulders with disgruntled aristocrats on the way. He crossed the gate meant to separate the classes, much to the paupers’ shock as he passed a family in clothes that resembled dish clothes. He slowed down when he saw the railing, though continued on with purpose. Clambering over, cautiously, he was suddenly standing on the outside of the bars, only his tight grip keeping him from falling overboard.

Taking deep breaths, he watched the water below him. He tried to ignore thoughts about how bracingly cold it would be, or if he would get trapped in the propellor, and think only of the relief he would get from jumping. Suddenly, he heard a voice pipe up from behind him. “Don’t do it." An American, her accent distinctly New Orleans, it was soft and gentle, and it reminded him of butter.

Whipping his head around he spotted a girl, perhaps in her early twenties, dressed in what looked like, and probably were, boy’s clothes. A paperboy cap was perched on her head, struggling to contain a bundle of chocolate coloured curls - that’s what he remembered about her. He had seen her previously when he had escaped his cabins for a smoke. She was offering him a smile, something he thought odd considering the situation they were in. Was she trying to soothe him? Comfort him?

“Stay back!” he called out to her, his hair blowing about in the wind, obstructing his view of the girl. “Don’t come any closer!"

Whilst his tone was as authoritative as he could make it, she disregarded him and continued on anyway. Stepping forward, she reached out a hand to him. “C’mon, give me your hand and I can pull you back over."

“No! Stay where you are! I mean it, or I’ll let go.” As Phillip said the words he took another glance down, and realised that all his determination about jumping had now vanished. His heart was thumping furiously in his chest, and he feared what would happen if he was to fall.

Turning around he expected the girl to try again and convince him to come back, but instead she tucked her hands into her pockets and stepped a little closer to him. She was looking out onto the horizon. “No you won’t,” she told him. Despite her effort to look calm and confident, he could see the trepidation in her posture and heard the doubt in her tone.

He couldn’t believe her nerve. “What do you mean I won’t? Don’t presume to know what I will or won’t do - you don’t know me!” He wasn’t angry with her, but couldn’t help how he was sounding. All of his horror and anxiety was trying to find an outlet, and she merely had the misfortune of standing there.

The girl shrugged, still looking a little hesitant. “Well, if you were going to do it, you would have by now."

“You’re distracting me!” Phillip retorted. Was she really arguing with him over his own suicide? “Go away!"

Again she shrugged. “I can’t,” she told him. “I’m involved now.” She continued to speak as she slipped off her coat, an oversized dark brown one that looked as though it had been through some scrapes. “If you jump then I’m going to have to go in after you."

What kind of girl was she? How many women did Phillip know that would offer to dive off a moving boat into freezing cold water after a man they had only just met? That was an extraordinary statement to make, and a stupid one at that. The temperature would kill them both, if the propellor didn’t do it first. Oh God, the propellor.

“Don’t be absurd,” he muttered. “You’ll be killed."

The girl nodded, taking him aback. “Almost definitely,” she replied, already starting to untie her shoelaces. “I can’t swim. Never learned to. I grew up in Louisiana you see, and the water there is infested with crocodiles. Put me off ever learning.” Phillip knew she was making lighthearted conversation to distract him, and he was ashamed to admit that it was working. “Although, truth be told I’m more worried about cold. Last year me and my brother were in Russia. They have some of the coldest winters in the world there. We went ice fishing, you know what ice fishing is, don’t you - "

“Yes I know what ice fishing is,” he snapped.

Raising her eyebrows at him, the girl’s eyes widened as she held her hands up in defence. “Sorry,” she continued. “You just seem kind of like . . . an indoors guy. Anyway, I fell through some thin ice. Water that cold, like the water down there, it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe, you can’t think - at least, not about anything but the pain.” Phillip gulped, a shiver running down his spine. “Which is why I’m not looking forward to jumping in there after you. It’s like I said though, I don’t have much of a choice. Unless . . . you wanna climb back over and get me off the hook here?"

“You’re crazy,” he said, shaking his head.

The girl grinned at that, and leaned in. “That’s what everybody says, but with all due respect sir, I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship. Now, c’mon and give me your hand."

Phillip couldn’t jump. He couldn’t bring himself to do it anymore. Whether the girl was bluffing or not, he couldn’t risk finding out. He took a deep breath and held out his hand. She took it, and he felt a surge of warmth go through his body. Slowly and carefully he turned himself around so that the pair were facing one another. He could look at her properly now, and she was breathtaking. Her eyes were the colour of bourbon, and were bright and inquisitive. Her skin was dark and reflected the light from the lamps, making her cheeks glow.

“I’m Anne Wheeler,” she greeted him, not breaking his stare. That was a pretty name. No pretentious title, no fancy way of pronouncing a certain vowel - just Anne.

“I’m Phillip Carlyle,” he told her, still unable to look away. She was certainly the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, so beautiful in fact that he forgot he was standing on a railing. He slipped backwards, and if it wasn’t for Anne’s grip on his hands, he would have certainly gone into the ocean. He cried out, as Anne struggled to pull him back over. He kept calling, begging her to save him.

“It’s ok!” she shouted, the crash of the waves on the side of the boat deafening. “I’ve got you! I won’t let you go!"

At that promise she dug her feet into the floor and yanked him up with all her might. He managed to find a footing, and was able to hoist himself up. She wrapped her arms around his waist as he wrapped his around her neck as she pulled him over the side. The force of which she pulled caused the pair of them to fall backwards, with Anne landing on top of Phillip. The pair collapsed in a heap, laughing out loud despite the alarm of the situation.

She was light, surprisingly so for somebody of her height and strength. Her legs were either side of his torso, and he was suddenly very glad she wasn’t wearing a skirt or a dress. He was looking up at her, and found he was completely enamoured by her. The cap she had previously been wearing had come off in all the chaos, so a cascade of curls fell about her face, tickling his cheeks. He longed to run a hand through her locks.

Caught up in trying to find the right words to say to her, Phillip suddenly heard footsteps. Glancing up he spotted several of the crew members staring upon the scene with horror and shock. “Are you alright sir? We heard you call out,” one of them spluttered, as the other two yanked Anne off of him with brute force. “This savage isn’t . . . harassing you, is she?"

As Phillip clambered to his feet he watched, helplessly, as Anne was was jostled around, their hands digging deep into all her pockets, presumably searching for a concealed weapon. She was trying to tell them she was unarmed, that there was nothing suspicious going on. The rough and thoughtless way in which the men were dealing with her, as though she were a criminal, made him feel sick to his stomach.

“I’m fine, truly,” Phillip tried, stepping forward. “Must she really be treated like this? She helped me, you see.” The men, however, continued on, slapping her hands away when she tried to push them off. This made him jolt forward, and wrap his arms around her, shielding her from their intruding prods and pokes. He was appalled at how harshly they were handling her - a woman, no less. Then something dawned on him. “Hold on, did you say 'savage’?"

The crew member furrowed his eyebrows, as he glanced at Anne in Phillip’s arms. “Well yes, I did, sir,” he replied, slowly, as though there was no question that Anne was 'a savage'. “I’ll have to fetch the master-at-arms, sir."

He let her go, feeling his cheeks burn up a little at being so close to her. Despite all his knowledge about race relations, Phillip was still shocked at their treatment of Anne. While he was spoken to with respect, the constant use of ‘sir’ for example, she was barely given a glance by the crew member and referred to only as ‘the savage’. He glanced at her and saw how well she was taking it. She appeared almost bored, her arms crossed. But of course, he realised, she was accustomed to this behaviour from white folk - especially upper classes.

Within a few minutes the men in charge arrived, along with his mother and fiancé - to his horror. They rushed towards him, Mathilda pulling at his clothes looking for tears and rips, whilst Elizabeth ran her hands across his face looking for scrapes and cuts. He assured them that he was fine, that it was a misunderstanding, when they descended upon Anne beside him, who was being handcuffed by one of the crew members.

“You nasty little half-breed!” Elizabeth spat, venomously. Her face had grown blotchy with anger, whilst his mother’s complexion was as white as ghost. They both clearly feared the worst. “Did you think you could really get your dirty paws all over his money?” Or perhaps all they were really worried about was losing money.

Phillip stepped in front of Anne, once again in an attempt to defend her. “Stop it Elizabeth,” he told her in a firm voice. This caused Elizabeth’s jaw to drop, as she glanced between her fiancé and the coloured girl he was protecting. “It was an accident."

“An accident?”

“It’s stupid, really,” Phillip began, hoping that his story would detract attention away from Anne. “I was leaning over, too far over, to see the propellors when I slipped. I would have gone overboard if Miss Wheeler here hadn’t saved me and nearly went over herself."

The man handcuffing Anne turned her around, with a gruff scowl. “Was that how it went?"

To his relief, she nodded. “Yeah,” she agreed. “That was pretty much it."

The master-at-arms chuckled heartily, and clapped Anne on the back. “Well, the girl’s a hero then,” he announced, much to the surprise of everyone around them. He grinned at Phillip. “I suppose you’d be wanting a brandy now, after all this chaos?"

Just the mention of the word brandy made his mouth dry and his throat tighten. However, he could feel his mother’s stare on the back of his head, and dismissed the offer politely. Instead he watched as the handcuffs were taken off of Anne, and the crew members skulked away, grumbling to themselves. “Are you alright?” he asked her, but before she could answer Elizabeth slipped her arm around his torso and began leading him away.

“You must be freezing, Philly,” she muttered, not at all concerned about him, but more about him talking to Anne. “Come on, let’s get you inside."

The master-at-arms coughed slightly, attracting the attention of Mathilda. “How about a little something for the girl? After all, she did save your son’s life."

Mathilda couldn’t argue with that, and sighed as she plastered a false smile on her thin lips. “I think a twenty should suffice,” she said, stiffly, to her faithful butler.

Scoffing, Phillip shook his head. “Is that the going rate for saving your only son?”

Mathilda absolutely loathed being called out like that in front of company, and was biting her tongue from saying something she’d regret. In her silence, Elizabeth spoke up. “Perhaps you could join us for dinner, tomorrow evening? You can regale out group with your heroic tale."

Sensing an ulterior motive in his fiancé's tone, Phillip willed Anne to say no. She was clearly shocked at the offer, but managed to play it off well, merely tucking her hands into her pockets. “Sure, count me in,” she answered, warily.

Grinning like a cat who had eaten a mouse, Elizabeth appeared most pleased with Anne’s answer. “Very good,” she replied. “Do make sure you wear something appropriate. At a least a skirt."

With that the all left the deck, and headed back to their cabins. Phillip turned around to have a glance at Anne, who was busy trying to tie her hair back up as it had come loose in the rescue attempt. He wished she’d leave it down - she looked heavenly like that. When she noticed him staring he didn’t look away, rather he gave her a smile. She smiled widely back, and he felt his heart soar.


End file.
